Defying Gravity
by The End Of The Beginning
Summary: “It’s time to try defying gravity.” Oneshot song narrative focusing on the turning point of the film.


A.N: As a result of my recent writer's block on the OTE story, I have been receiving a sudden influx of ideas for new oneshots. Backstory on this one: I'm not a huge fan of show tunes, but this song, 'Defying Gravity' caught my eye, for some odd reason. The lyrics really seemed to apply to a pivotal point in the movie for me—the pen scene—and I thought it would be kind of fun to write a oneshot centering around that.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye nor do I own any portion of 'Wicked'. I kind of wish I owned Red Eye, 'cause it's awesome, and 'Wicked', 'cause then I would be really, really wealthy. **

**Rating: T for Teen. Like the video game. Because Lisa has a nice, clean mind in this one, and the only violence is the GAK.**

**Summary: "It's time to try defying gravity." Oneshot song narrative focusing on the turning point of the film. **

_Something has changed within me  
Something is not the same  
I'm through with playing by the rules  
Of someone else's game_

I am a person who needs regime and knowledge. I am not emotional, and I am not the kind of woman who cries at the drop of a hat.

Or, in this case, the drop of a wallet.

I am used to hiding my sensitivity behind things that are clearly spelled out before me: my work schedule, plain solid truth. If I can see it, I believe it.

I can see Jackson Rippner. He's staring blankly at the seat in front of him, which makes me wonder if he has a soul at all, or if he is merely a robot programmed to carry out this assignment. Then I remember his eyes, and I realize that no human brain could ever dream of creating that color, no matter how much acrylic or other medium was available.

Blue is the color of hell, not red.

Jackson says I operate by female-driven, emotion-based logic. That's not true. I didn't believe him when he told me his business was all about me, it took the wallet to prove it. My tears were a product of confusion and worry—not necessarily fear. Naturally, I was frightened, but not for myself. For my father, for Mr. Keefe, and, as crazy as it sounds, the other passengers. My initial thought when he brought up the Secretary was that he had a bomb concealed somewhere, ready to annihilate every soul on this plane if I didn't comply.

I've changed during this flight, I have been undeniably altered. Being faced with a decision like this—the _ultimate_ inner debate—is no small challenge. It's one that drains you, weakens you, makes you yearn to curl up in a ball and rock yourself to sleep. But it's too immediate—a man whispering, hurting, urging you _now, now, now._ You can't ignore it, all you can do is cover your ears and cry. My personality has gone from strong, dignified hotel manager to cowering, sobbing hostage. _Hostage._ It sounds so helpless—I _am_ helpless.

My thumb strokes my waist, running over the small curve where my freedom could lie. I don't know if it will work—and this is considerably an even more dangerous decision than the original one. It compares ironically to casino gambling—you're a bit ahead now, you have a little bit of money, but things could be _better_ if you try one more thing, one more plight.

If I succeed—everything will be okay. Jackson will go to prison, or, even better, he will die, and my father will live. The Keefes will not be submitted to a fiery inferno.

But if I fail, Jackson could very well kill me. When I recall the Tex Mex façade I get to thinking maybe he wouldn't—maybe, although he's an assassin, he would spare me because we had a little bit of something back in that bar. Maybe he has an ounce of compassion that wasn't drained out of him throughout his cold, murderous life.

But maybe not. I remember the iron grip on my neck, the way his fingers so coldly flicked over my scar like it was a bit of comedic material, the connection of his head to my skull. Jackson Rippner is a killer.

If this doesn't work, my dad will die. Keefe will die as well, and his family. And maybe Jackson was lying—despite his claim that he doesn't—and _does_ have a weapon concealed somewhere. Then, even if I made it out alive, I would live with that eternal guilt, the blood of hundreds on my trembling hands.

What if the pen doesn't penetrate his skin? It's not that sharp, just a tiny piece of plastic, and it's not like I recently won the title of Heavyweight Champion. I'm not strong. I like to think I am, but when it comes down to it, I'm weak. If I were strong, I would have been left alone two years ago. If I weren't weak, Jackson Rippner never would have targeted me, Lisa Reisert, as his victim.

I've never heard of a pen killing someone before, but there is a chance. Either way, I must do something. It's a sick version of cabin fever—cramped inside this seat, trapped between a man and a window—I cannot escape. I _have_ to escape. My finger quivers over my only weapon.

I can feel it, I have seen it. I know it's there, it's as clear as the person sitting next to me, as obvious as my hand. It's a fact that even something with a blunt point, with enough force, can seriously wound a person.

I can see Miami approaching, and like a dream, I can see my opportunity nearing. For once, I could be in control.

This is a game of life and death, a game that Jackson must lose.

_Too late for second-guessing  
Too late to go back to sleep  
It's time to trust my instincts  
Close my eyes: and leap._

I falter as Jackson looks at me. Swooping to the floor as the plane rolls to a stop, my hand shudders over the pen. His eyes create my uncertainty, my confusion, they make me want to fall asleep and never awaken.

"What's wrong now?"

I try not to gasp. Can he read my thoughts, can he sense my doubt? No. It's because I shifted positions. That's all, I really should calm down.

"You hit me on the head and slammed me against the wall, remember?" There is just enough bitterness laced into my quaking voice to disguise the fearful anticipation. He does not expect a thing. I can't back out now, because there is no way to hide the pen again without drawing Jackson's attention. It's becoming too late for second-guessing myself.

That doesn't work in a game where the gamble is my life.

_I'm through accepting limits  
'Cuz someone says they're so  
Some things I cannot change  
But till I try, I'll never know._

"It happened in a parking lot."

Jackson turns to me, his eyes distant. "What?" Is he asking that because he didn't hear me, or because he's pressing for more details? I continue.

"The scar. Two years ago…in the middle of the day." I feel rather guilty as I reflect upon this date, the infamous parking lot incident what's like a lifetime ago but seems like yesterday. I close my eyes, as much as to block the memories that are flooding back to me as to ignore Jackson's piercing gaze. My throat begins to close, I hate recounting this. It doesn't help that I hate Jackson possibly more than the rapist, or that I'm only telling this to distract him. Is that bad karma? "He held a knife to my throat the whole time."

Jackson nods slowly, which I take to be either a gesture of sympathy—unlikely—or understanding. I decide on the latter—his eyes convey a quiet contemplation. And like I said—I base my actions on fact alone. Fact, and fear.

I look out the window as we come to a complete stop. Dust rolls up, nearly blocking my view. Perhaps that's a good thing—the farther detached I am from reality, the more likely I am to succeed. "Ever since then, I've been reminding myself of one thing."

I hear Jackson roll the idea around in his head, obviously thinking he's wise and thoughtful when he replies somberly, "That it was beyond your control."

_Too long I've been afraid of  
Losing love I guess I've lost  
Well, if that's love  
It comes at much too high a cost!_

There they come again, those second thoughts. The what-ifs. What if Jackson, instead of being a chauvinistic jerk like the rest of the planet's male population, had been different? What if he had turned out to be exactly like he was in the Tex Mex? Charming, handsome, casual, generous. What if, what if. What if I were blonde and six foot one? These questions get me nowhere.

It was beyond my control. This whole thing was beyond my control, and that's a fact. A fact that I hate, I hate _Jackson._ His condescendence spurs my anger yet again, and my fingers tighten over the pen, practically cutting off circulation. I want it in his throat, I want it in his throat _now._

But I can't. I clench my teeth and hold out a moment longer. The seatbelt sign hasn't given me the go yet. Until then, it is not safe. The flight attendants are moving about in their cabin now. I close my eyes and shake my head one last time. This is the _last_ time Jackson will see me submit to him.

_I'd sooner buy  
Defying gravity  
Kiss me goodbye  
I'm defying gravity  
And you can't pull me down._

It's time.

"No," I sigh heavily, with the weight of a worn woman. Does he suspect anything? Does anything foretell his impending injury? Dear God, I hope not. "That it would never happen again."

The sign is off. Everything is slow. Jackson turns to me, mouth suspending as he prepares to speak. I curl my arm backwards, the pen is propelling, and I think I can do this, because I am strong, fueled by the anger that he inspired. In a way, he is hurting himself.

_And if I'm flying solo  
At least I'm flying free  
To those who'd ground me  
Take a message back from me  
Tell them how I am  
Defying gravity  
I'm flying high  
Defying gravity  
And soon I'll match them in renown_

Or maybe not. Another wave of self-consciousness overcomes me as I near his neck. Slowly, Jackson cocks his head at me with a boyish grin, gently pulling the pen from my grasp. I dilate slowly, my breathing even. It's over. He leans towards me, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers.

"You can't fight gravity, Leese," he mutters. "And you certainly can't fight me."


End file.
